


Filling the Cracks

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Don't copy to another site, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John Whump, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sharing a Bed, They love each other so much, Vulnerable John Watson, non-graphic description of injuries sustained in a fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26307613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: John is mugged on his way home. He doesn't deal well with the emotional aftermath. Fortunately, Sherlock is there for him. Always.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 269





	Filling the Cracks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yorkiepug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yorkiepug/gifts).



> A 1000-word fic dedicated to my 1000 followers on tumblr. And in particular, dedicated to Yorkiepug, who won the draft for a prompt, and is one of my favourite fandom people :)  
> The prompt was "any kind of John whump followed by protective & loving Sherlock taking care of him". I hope this fits the bill!  
> Check the link at the end for a podfic of this story read by the delightful Podfixx!

‘Sofa or armchair?’

‘Armchair,’ John grunts.

Sherlock leads John to his armchair with measured steps, right arm wrapped around John’s shoulders. In other circumstances, Sherlock would have enjoyed the proximity.

These are not “other circumstances”.

He helps John sit down, hunching down and slowly releasing his grip. John heaves a sigh of relief.

It had been a long night at the A&E. Absorbed in articles on current topics in forensic science, Sherlock had hardly felt the hours pass in 221B. John was working late, an extra shift due to a sick colleague. The recent application of droplet digital PCR to the resolution of a string of murders in Taiwan had not impeded the incoming text to embed indelibly in Sherlock’s mind.

_Got mugged on my way home. Bit bruised. At St Mary’s A &E. Just wanted to let you know._

The visceral panic possessing Sherlock as he typed ‘ _on my way–SH_ ’ and ran out of the door still lingers after all these hours, even after the reassurance that John would recover fully.

A glance at his friend tells him it’s going to take a while. John is very still, posture stiff as he stares at some undefined point beyond the windowpanes.

Sherlock clears his throat. ‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Something stronger?’ John shakes his head so minutely it would be easy to miss, still staring out to nothingness.

After some not so gentle coaxing for further details, Sherlock had learned from the medical staff that besides bruised ribs, a spectacular black eye, and a sprained wrist, John was physically okay. His rigid posture tells a tale of pain and hurt underneath his tattered jumper. There’s mud on his jeans and scuff marks on his shoes; the wrist is bandaged, the eye not as swollen after hours of careful icing.

What worries Sherlock now is how distant and distracted John is.

The last few weeks had seen something shift between them. They have always been close, but lately invisible barriers had started dissolving. There have been more lingering looks, touches on shoulders, an occasional hand on the small of the back. More than closeness, there’s a blossoming intimacy filling the cracks of their broken lives. After so much pain, the change is welcomed, if not openly acknowledged.

And so, Sherlock feels that he has the leverage to try to pull John to the surface. ‘I cancelled your card.’ No response. ‘We can go later today to the bank to get you a new one. Or tomorrow. Whenever you– whenever you feel like it.’ Still no reaction.

The “take care of practical details” approach is visibly not working, so Sherlock decides to take a more direct route. He sits in his armchair facing John, who still refuses to move or make eye contact. ‘John,’ he calls softly. ‘John. Please. Look at me.’

Finally, John emerges from whichever inner thoughts he’s been swimming in; his eyes focus on Sherlock’s. But instead of the resolute man Sherlock hopes to see come out of the silent stupor of the last hours, there is a lost, empty shell that croaks a tired ‘what?’

‘Talk to me,’ Sherlock pleads, imbuing as much softness as he can in his voice. Alarmed, Sherlock stares as John’s lower lip wobbles and he sinks his head in his palms. His shoulders start shaking in the unmistakable rhythm of sobbing. It’s quiet and it’s heart-wrenching, and Sherlock finds himself on his knees, his hands gently grasping John’s elbows. ‘John…’

‘I feel– I feel so _stupid_. How could I let them–’ John’s thoughts scatter as he sniffles, but Sherlock reads it all in the unspoken words. _He blames himself_ , he realises.

 _This is will not do_. ‘You were outnumbered and surprised, tired after a double shift, thinking how nice it would be to come home.’ Sherlock pries John’s hands from his face. Red-rimmed eyes look back at him; John is listening. Encouraged, Sherlock holds John’s hands between his own, a thumb running back and forth over sore knuckles. ‘Instead of a quiet evening by the fire, you had to spend the night in the hospital being prodded…’

‘And bloody pissed off,’ John chuckles wetly.

‘And bloody pissed off,’ Sherlock echoes with a smile. ‘No wonder you feel… fragile.’

It’s a risk to use words either of them usually scoffs at, but the reward is John’s single, tired nod.

Sherlock reaches up and places a tender kiss on John’s cheek before he can second-guess himself. As John responds with a pleased hum, Sherlock repeats the gesture further up on John’s temple. He leans back to lock eyes on his friend again.

A silent agreement passes between them.

Sherlock helps John up from the chair and leads him down the hall to his bedroom, makes him sit on Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock helps him out of his shoes, then of his jeans and jumper, lifts an inviting corner of the duvet. John lies down with a groan of pain, then another of relief.

Sherlock follows suit, disrobing most of his clothes and sliding between the cool sheets. So very carefully, he spoons John, minding his injuries, a hand resting on John’s hip. He feels John relax against his chest, adjusting his position for maximum contact between their bodies. Sherlock murmurs ‘I got you’, leaves small pecks on his neck, his shoulder. Relaxes as John falls asleep.

Neither of them questions this arrangement. It’s the first night of many to come when they fall asleep in each other’s arms. Tonight, it’s comfort and care; in nights to come, it will be the vulnerability of giving themselves to each other, sometimes passionate and desperate, oftentimes tender and sweet. It will be about filling the cracks with hugs and kisses and intimacy, with laughs and tea and cases. It’s the tangible proof of their love, the sort of love that grows stronger with the years, that survives and blooms brighter after every hardship. The future stretches bright with the promise of togetherness.

Tonight, they sleep.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Filling the Cracks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022996) by [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/pseuds/Podfixx)




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